Escape
by artemis lecter
Summary: Draco muses about his relationship with a certain raven-haired someone. Can he keep his feelings in check? Rated for sexual content and language, SLASH.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and all characters belong to J.K. Rowling… I just like to tweak the characters because Harry and Draco would have made an awesome couple ^_^

Author's Note: This fanfiction is rated Mature for language and sexual content. If you're not old enough to read such content, please do not. Also, this is my first slash fic, so please review and help me improve. ^_^

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I stretched out on the bed, cigarette in hand. He had already drifted off to sleep—it usually took me several minutes before I was able to follow suit. I wondered if that was another reason he came to me—he only really slept after I fucked him senseless.

Our little affair had been going on for months now. I don't even really know what triggered it. I was standing in the hall, without Crabbe and Goyle for once, alone near the dungeons with Harry Potter. If my memory serves me correctly, I said something about his Mudblood groupie when he walked up and stood toe-to-toe with me. He's scrawny, but he still stands a few inches taller than me. I was certain he was going to forget all about his wand and punch me—until he grabbed me by the waist and kissed me.

I had no idea he swung that way. I don't even think he knew. But it was such a good kiss, you'd think he had had a ton of practice kissing blokes—which certainly would have gotten around the school if that were the case. As it was, I wasn't exactly inclined to stop him.

I should back up a minute and explain. See, I've wanted Harry Potter for years, literally. At first, for the most part, I was jealous of him. Saint Potter, who had Dumbledore wrapped around his pinky finger, whom everyone seemed to adore, who personified Gryffindor House. Harry Potter, who had declined my friendship when I was convinced that everyone wanted to be in my inner circle, conceited Malfoy brat that I was. It wasn't very long until even my own father began the scathing comments about how a parentless urchin raised by Muggles had made the House Quidditch team in his first year and managed to get good marks in everything. All of it just about made me ill.

Then, in third year, my feelings for the boy changed drastically. A large part of me still hated him with a fury, but a smaller, much more hidden part of me wanted him. Desperately. I suppose his utter unattainability made it all the worse. It started out as merely lust—nothing more that a crush, a few glances in the halls followed by crude thoughts. He was good-looking—this much was obvious to everyone. He was also intelligent, and he had a wicked sense of humor, which, unfortunately, was usually directed at me in some demeaning way (although, admittedly, I almost always started it). And by the end of third year, I was inwardly beating the shit out of myself for falling in love with him.

It's not like I meant to. And I obviously never spread the word about it. My father would have beaten me senseless, proud as he is. My so-called mates would sneer and then refuse to speak with me. Not because I'm queer, mind you—this was generally accepted by my social circle. Crabbe and Goyle had been fuck buddies for years (although this might have something to do with the fact that no females wanted them), Blaise Zabini had been trying to get in my pants for a rather long time, and Pansy was convinced that with enough effort she could make me prefer girls- specifically, her. The fact that it was "The Boy Who Lived" (honestly, what a stupid title) was what would ultimately condemn me.

After he kissed me, quickly lopping away without a backward glance, it was like I couldn't stand not to be touching him. I stole glances in the few classes we had together, and I was pleased to discover that often when I looked at him, he would quickly look in the other direction, blushing.

He didn't approach me again, though. After about a week of him steering clear of me, changing direction if he saw me in the corridors, I thought I was going to go insane. I thought about him constantly; in the middle of the night, when all the other blokes in my dormitory were asleep. And Lord knows he was in my thoughts when I wanked, which was pretty often considering the frustration I felt. The whole thing was utterly ridiculous.

Finally, I waited for him outside Potions. He had been leaving last, always focusing on his class work for as long as possible, since about the beginning of the year. And, since Granger wouldn't want to miss one second of a chance to suck up to one of the professors and Weasley had long since given up trying to stick around and understand him, I knew Harry would be leaving alone.

He came out of the classroom much later than everyone else, eyes pointing towards the floor as was usual for him now, and my hand shot out, grabbing him by the upper arm. He was fast, moving for his wand without a sound. I grabbed his wrist, preventing him from hexing me, and dragged him around the corner quickly. Typical Gryffindor—he didn't even think to yell for help. I spun him around and practically slammed him against the wall, glaring at him. It helped my ego a bit that he only looked slightly less afraid upon the realization that it was I who had grabbed him; I was sure, however, that this was due to the incident the week before, not fear of what I could do to him. He wasn't afraid of me in that sense.

"Why are you avoiding me?" I ground out through my teeth. I hated how accusational my voice sounded. Why the hell should I care whether or not he avoided me? I sounded like a little girl. Pathetic.

He stared at me as though I hadn't been speaking English. I rolled my eyes.

"Potter, you're not dense, and I know you understand what I'm talking about. So out with it. Why are you avoiding me?" I demanded again. He waited for a moment, then sighed.

"Because you're Malfoy."

I laughed. It was a very honest answer. I searched his face. It looked wary, as if he was expecting me to curse him any moment. That was a good thing—I was beginning to think I had lost my touch. I also saw something else in his eyes, though. He wanted me.

I stepped even closer to him, a little nervous. For God's sake, this was ludicrous. It wasn't the first time I had snogged another bloke—far from it. But the fact remained that while I had no idea how he felt about me, I already knew I was in love with Harry. I was nervous as hell.

I still have no idea if he knew what I was feeling, but something changed in his expression, and suddenly he was kissing me. He seemed more brave this time, now that he knew I wasn't going to push him away from me. His hands went to the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair, while after the initial shock wore off I would my arms around his slender waist. At that point, it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to rip his clothes off and fuck him senseless. The kiss lasted longer than the previous one had, and in that time I was able to notice that although he was an extremely talented kisser (which made me wonder where and on whose lips he had gotten the practice), he was incredibly shy and careful.

I broke the kiss, looking at him, trying not to allow the awe I felt to show on my face. This boy was amazing. I had never felt connected with someone like this before—he hadn't even said anything, and I still felt like he understood me. I remember raising my hand and stroking his soft face with my fingertips, noticing the shudder that passed through him as I did so.

"Stop running away from me," I said softly. And I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there staring at my back.

I didn't have any classes with him the next day, but I noticed that when I looked over at him in the Great Hall at lunch, he looked back at me, even smiling a little bit. I grinned. I was repeatedly scolded by the professors that day for not paying attention—not that I cared much to begin with. I had long since given up on school. What was the point, if the Dark Lord was going to return to power?

That evening, I waited for him outside the Great Hall. He walked out by himself, as he was inclined to do nowadays, and again I grabbed him by the arm, hauling him around the corner. He didn't panic this time—I think he knew exactly who it was this time around. I pinned him against the wall, careful not to really hurt him. I leaned in and kissed him, reveling in how his tongue felt against mine, tasting him. Where had he learned to kiss? It was wonderful.

When we pulled away from each other, panting slightly, he raised his eyebrows at me, looking at my arms and how they were imprisoning him against the wall.

"Seems someone likes it a little rough," he murmured. I almost blushed.

"Play your cards right, Potter, and you might find out exactly how I like it." He did blush. I grinned. He was adorable.

He looked down at the floor, biting his lip. I grabbed his chin gently, tilting his head back up so he had o choice but to look in my eyes. It had never occurred to me how feminine he was—very tough, yes, and certainly aware of himself, but in moments like this, he was almost girlishly shy. I found it very endearing.

"What's wrong," I asked softly. I don't know why I was so gentle with him. I suppose I was afraid of chasing him away.

"Why do you want me?" he asked, looking away from my eyes. I chuckled.

"Potter, you do own a mirror, don't you?" I asked, running my hands down his chest. He has amazing muscles—of course, the fact that he played Quidditch every day helped with that, and I knew that he had started going for a run every morning.

He still looked nervous. "So, the only reason you want to…" he trailed off, biting that adorable lip again. I rolled my eyes.

"Do you want me to tell you I love you, Potter? Would you even believe me?" He didn't need to know the truth. He smiled.

"No, I suppose not." Smiling, I leaned forward and kissed him again, sucking his lower lip, then nibbling on it gently. He moaned—easily the most erotic thing I had ever heard. I pressed him against the wall harder, making him feel how hard I was. I heard his gasp. I pulled away, smirking.

"We can take this somewhere else, if you'd like," I whispered in his ear. I felt him shudder. "I don't much fancy shagging you in the middle of the corridor. People might talk." He blushed.

"I don't—" he stammered, once again looking down. Apparently he found my shoes fascinating. "I mean, I…" I took pity on him.

"You've never fucked a bloke."

He nodded, red creeping back into his face. I chuckled, nuzzling his neck. "I know that. Don't worry about it."

He looked at me, and the trust in his eyes made me feel like I had fireworks going off in my stomach. He smiled shyly.

Needless to say, I got the chance to drag him out of his shell a little bit. I took him into the prefect's bathroom, magically sound-proofed it, locked the door, and held him up against the wall. We went from kissing to grinding to me seeing just how big his cock is (and let me tell you, the rumors, for once, were entirely true. The boy was hung like a horse). I do believe I was the first bloke to have the great privilege of sucking him off, listening to his whimpering. I didn't fuck him that night—even I didn't want to push a virgin that far, that quickly—but I'm sure he knew then that I had plans. He blushed like a bride on her wedding night at the end of that evening. I winked at him.

"Not bad, Potter," I smirked. Did he ever stop blushing? I walked up to him, zipping up my pants and smoothing back my hair. I kissed his neck.

"My turn next time," I whispered in his ear. I walked out, lifting the enchantments on the room.

"Mind you don't get caught—and fix your hair. It says "'Draco Malfoy just shagged me senseless.'" I chuckled at his abashed look, making my way back to the dungeons.

A week later, I fucked him, in that same room. It was amazing. Easily the best I'd had—of course, I was used to fucking loose whores, but I'm sure that even if he hadn't been a virgin, Harry would have been amazing. I made sure to start out slow, but after a few minutes he was begging me to fuck him harder. God, I was in love with this boy.

After the first time, he seemed to be under the impression that I didn't want him anymore. I had to laugh at him.

"Honestly, Potter—a fuck that good, I'm not giving up the chance to relive." I chuckled. No need to him to know that he wasn't "just a fuck" to me. He'd never believe me anyway.

We kept it up for awhile. I fucked him in that bathroom many more times, once or twice in the corridors, with my hand clamped over his to keep him from screaming, and I got him to sneak into my bedroom on the nights the other blokes were out shagging whoever it was that week.

Every once in awhile one of the other Slytherins would ask who I was shagging—as it was obvious I was shagging _someone_. Pansy was especially keen on finding out who it was. After a couple of times, though, they stopped asking, thankfully.

About a month into our "relationship", if that's what you'd call it, I started to notice a trend. Harry came to me a lot, but the times he really needed me, wanted me to be rough with him, was when he'd had a bad day—a meeting with Dumbledore, his supposed "friends" bickering more than usual, or on the days when the schoolwork was getting especially difficult. On these days, he loved me to hurt him a little. I didn't mind, really. He kept coming back.

And so here I sat. I'd been meaning for weeks to tell Harry how I felt about him. It's been four months of shagging, of sneaking around the corridors and of him lying to his friends, saying he'd been in the library. Granger, at least, I thought suspected, but at least she had the decency not to say anything. I was getting tired of it. He needed me. That much was plain. He actually slept after we'd been together, and I knew that for as long as I shagged him, his mind was off the other bullshit he had going on. It was an escape for him. And for me as well.

Tomorrow, I'll tell him. Everything. For tonight, I'll hold him, and pretend that life isn't the complicated mess we knew it was.


End file.
